


No Loose Ends

by friendlybomber



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Characters tagged with updates, Fix-It, Fuck Eamon Guerrin, Gen, Intrigue, King Alistair (Dragon Age), Long, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Potential teagan/mahariel, Redcliffe (Dragon Age), Rewrite, Slow Build, Warnings In Chapter Notes, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23505661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendlybomber/pseuds/friendlybomber
Summary: The Blight is ended. Life moves on, and Ferelden's political landscape is drastically changed by the resolution of the civil war. King Alistair tries to keep order. Teagan Guerrin adjusts to his new role as arl of Redcliffe. The Hero of Ferelden makes a life for herself as Commander of the Grey and arlessa of Amaranthine.Now, as winter hits Redcliffe hard, Mahariel's return to heroics goads her into another political mess - one that will bring to light lies and secrets that have haunted her since Alistair took the throne three years ago. A combination of intrigue, adventuring, and slice of life during the Fereldan winter. Also, there are demons. And mushrooms. And romance. Sort of.
Relationships: Alistair & Female Warden (Dragon Age), Nathaniel Howe & Warden, Teagan Guerrin & Warden
Kudos: 5





	1. Let's Do Some Good

**Author's Note:**

> This is a (loose) rewrite of No loose ends (a love story told in 4 months). It's gonna be a long 'un. The plot is subject to change from its original manifestation. As far as this fic is concerned, nothing I've written about Warden Ethelan Mahariel Sabrae before applies. We're pioneering a new personal canon, folks.
> 
> Think of this fic as my way of reconciling some knowledge gaps Dragon Age gives us between games. Namely, how does Teagan become King Alistair's right-hand man, despite Eamon being Chancellor? Also, are we ever going to address that a non-Cousland warden can become Ferelden's first non-human noble? Or that Grey Wardens aren't supposed to get involved in politics?? Anyway, that's why I'm here. Also, I've decided to give one of Inquisition's requisition officers a backstory, because fuck you. Enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teagan writes to Vigil’s Keep. Nathaniel bullies his commander. Ethelan breaks and enters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1: Redcliffe, Amaranthine, Etc.

The men returned, and they were weary. 

They came at dusk, when the sun finally dipped below the line of the Frostbacks. The sky was sloe black, and a vicious chill moaned through the banks of Calenhad. A procession of knights trudged along edge and bridge. Their armor was scuffed, dented, uncleaned from the battle that had claimed too many of them. Shields emblazoned with red slung on stooped backs, smeared with dirt and rusty blood. 

Five days of travel from Edgehall to Redcliffe. Less on horseback. Many of the knights’ horses had died, whether by the enemy’s hand or their own. Broken legs, pierced lungs. That sort of grim reality of war. Those who walked, often alongside a brother on horseback, carried an extra weight with them. 

There were no stars. The clouds had threatened snow all day. Little blessings; the knights returned before the skies opened up. 

All this for one battle. Teagan had to wonder if it was worth it. 

He had not gone with them to Edgehall – how could he, with Redcliffe starving? Now that they’d returned, he wished he had. Too many had been injured or killed. He should have been there to lead them. What good was a noble who sent men to fight battles he could not fight himself? 

The truth of the matter was, had he gone, chances were, he’d be dead too. Such was the nature of violent rebellions. They got people killed. 

The drinks flowed that night. Anything to ease his men’s hurts, the exhaustion that weighed their bones, the empty spaces where friends ought to be. He sat among them, gnawed by guilt. If they begrudged him their mission, they did not show it. 

The hall was red with torchlight. Fires roared in the hearths, and the air was thick with the smell of smoke and ale. The knights filled out benches at a long table. Out of armor, they were bruised and pale, but alive. The mood was grim. Too tired to make merry. 

Ser Hylan was deep into his report, and deeper into his ale. He was a large man, a burly man, the sort of man whose formidableness did not fade with his age. His graying hair fell in sweaty strings around his face. 

“The pyres burned long, m’lord,” he said. “Thank the Maker it was mostly their men.” 

“Would that there were none,” Teagan sighed. “You fought bravely. I only wish I had been there too.” 

Ser Hylan waved him off. “You’re needed here, m’lord. Anyway, we ran the traitorous bastards off. The king’s men were happy, at least.” 

Teagan scowled. Alistair had asked him to provide support. To set an example for the Bannorn to follow. He’d done it at the cost of good lives. 

“I suppose we should be glad for the victory.” 

“Yessir,” Ser Hylan said. He took a deep swig. He leaned between his knees, rubbing his red face. “Oof. Have to run more drills. Those Edgehall boys handed us our arses on a platter.” 

Teagan patted him on the back. “But you survived. That is no small thing.” 

Ser Hylan snorted. “Most of us. Ahh, I’ll press ‘em harder from here on out. Anyhow, there’s the story, m’lord.” 

“I would’ve liked it better if there had been a dragon.” 

“Next time I tell it, there will be.” 

“Good man.” 

Teagan left the knights to their drinks soon thereafter. With the red torchlight behind him, he wandered the halls of Castle Redcliffe, not entirely certain where he was headed. Exhaustion pulled at him. Though he hadn’t joined in quelling the Edgehall rebellion, his work in Redcliffe was enough to fill ten days. Pity he tried to fit it all into one. 

Tired though he was, his mind apparently hadn’t gotten the memo. He felt restless, itchy. He wanted to run. He had so many _problems_ these days, and so little time to solve them. Worse, most of them couldn’t be solved by hitting them. But that was ruling an arling, he supposed. It was certainly more complex than anything Rainesfere ever faced. 

The fact of the matter was, Ferelden had not yet recovered from the Blight and the Civil War. Shaking calamity was no small thing. Four years could hardly dent the royal mess Loghain and the darkspawn had left behind. 

Before all this, it wouldn’t have really been Teagan’s concern. He’d spent his days in Rainesfere overseeing a doddering village with a few orchards, hunting with Cailan whenever his bannorn could do without him, which was often. It was the closest thing to a carefree life a man could get in Ferelden. 

Then Eamon had fallen sick. And Cailan had died. And suddenly, Teagan was no longer a carefree bann breezing his way through life, but a Guerrin taking charge of a political apocalypse. 

He’d gotten his first taste of ruling Redcliffe then. Kept the arling afloat while Eamon was indisposed. Maker knows what would’ve happened if the Hero of Ferelden- if _Ethelan_ hadn’t shown up. He’d had no idea the amount of work it took to hold an arling together in crisis. 

Well, he knew now. And, as the arl, he knew it all too well. Eamon told him often he did not need to resolve every issue personally. He respectfully disagreed. Nobility were caretakers. His aunt had taught him that. Redcliffe’s problems were his problems. 

Unfortunately, Redcliffe had a lot of problems. 

He found his way to his bedchamber, reluctant though he was to actually sleep. He gazed listlessly around for something that might occupy him. Staring at the wall and contemplating every minute item on his to-do list was always an option, but he’d really rather _not_. 

His eyes settled on his desk. Letter writing. At least it was social. 

Letters lay strewn across the desktop. He flipped through them. Angry bann. Angry bann. Angry cousin, oh dear. Unhelpful vote of confidence from Alistair. Angry bann. Brother of angry bann. Delightful. 

He unearthed a letter from the bottom of the stack. It was opened, but not yet sorted away. The handwriting on it was crude, childlike. It was stamped with the blue seal of Vigil’s Keep. Upon seeing it, a smile graced his lips. 

Ethelan wrote regularly. She was not particularly good at it; by her own admission, she had not learned to read or write until four years ago. But she was not one to forget her friends. She was loyal, that girl. Sometimes to a fault. 

She’d been doing well for herself since the Blight. Vigil’s Keep was the gem of Ferelden’s military might. The Grey Wardens were widely respected, and half of their good reputation had to do with Ethelan personally insinuating herself into everyone’s problems. And, Amaranthine was thriving, although Teagan understood that had more to do with her seneschal than her. 

She was a rare breed. Few others would risk their lives for complete strangers simply because it was the right thing to do, but Ethelan made a habit of it. She was selfless and brave and beautiful, as Teagan was painfully aware. 

What he wouldn’t give for her to waltz back into Redcliffe and solve all his problems again. To just show up out of the blue and help out in that way she did. Redcliffe needed someone like that right now. _Teagan_ needed someone like that right now. 

He considered the letter in his hands. It would be a small thing to reach out. To ask for help. She’d come, of course she would. She’d show up with training for the knights and food for the village and needles for the women and tools for the men. She’d run around helping everyone she possibly could, and she’d do it all without thought of reward. 

And he would get to see her again. That wasn’t a crime, was it? 

As if in answer, outside the castle, snow began to fall. 

* * *

It had been a harsh winter. For much of the month of Guardian, snow had covered Ferelden, obscuring the roads and making travel all but impossible. Dim sun barely pierced the cloud veil, and much of the land was in a sleepy gloom. 

Today, however, was warmer than usual. Puddles of slush clumped between patches of sunlight, and the road, finally liberated, was muddy but clear. However, this did nothing to relieve the Grey Wardens slowly making their way along Lake Calenhad. 

They kept their eyes sharp. As mad as it seemed to be out in these winter months, bandits were active in this area. The Grey Wardens had been warned to stay alert on their journey to Redcliffe. 

Not that they really looked much like Grey Wardens at the moment. Their signature armor was buried under furs and wool, heavy knitted scarves all but swallowing their faces. Mud covered their legs to the knees; they had abandoned their horses with an hostler a few days ago, and had been making the trek on foot ever since. 

Ethelan shot a scrying look to the sun. “We’re making good time so,” she said, her Dalish accent thick and mealy. “Redcliffe is but a ways off.” 

“Stay on guard,” Nathaniel responded. He glanced behind them, ever on watch for an ambush. “I don’t want to get jumped by bandits today.” 

“Been safe so far,” Ethelan said. “Glad to be lucky for once.” 

Nathaniel didn’t look relieved. He looked around the area as if he expected ruffians to emerge from every tree. “Let’s not press our luck. We should keep moving.” 

Ethelan shrugged, strolling along as if she had nary a care in the world. Still, she thumbed her arrows intently. “Let’s hope we get to the village before trouble gets to us, hm?” 

They pressed on, following the road through highlands and thickets. Ferelden was a wild, timeless land. The years had little effect on the brown and muck of the Hinterlands. Four years had passed since Ethelan had first come this way, and yet it was as if nothing had changed at all. 

But it had changed. Everything had changed. It had been spring, then, and warmth was everywhere in those darker, greyer times. 

Redcliffe Village rose into view. Here, change was apparent. The Blight had dealt a thorough beating to Redcliffe, and the reconstruction had been extensive. Much had changed since the first time Ethelan had visited. Houses were in different spots. Walls surrounded the huts. The mill overlooking the village was a ruin now. 

Passing the mill had a strange effect on Ethelan. She had many memories associated with that mill. The timbre of a velvety rose, of a first kiss. But, like that romance, the mill no longer stood. Wreckage from the Blight. A new mill stood on a distant hill. No new roses in Ethelan’s hand, though. 

The snow in the village had not melted yet. White and quiet, Redcliffe bustled with brisk business. It was daft to be out in this kind of weather. The only ones who seemed to be enjoying it were the children, several of whom were rolling a massive snowball through the center square. They pushed it up against a half-built statue. Ethelan smiled. Teagan had mentioned that once. A monument to the Hero of Ferelden. 

“Weshould’ve built a snowman at the Vigil,” Ethelan commented as she and Nathaniel turned up the path toward the castle. 

“A snowman?” Nathaniel repeated. He considered this. “We could use your helmet for the head.” 

“Arrows for arms,” she suggested. 

“Or for the ears,” he said. 

“Why does our snowman need arrows for the ears?” 

“I’m imagining a snowman that looks like you. So it needs pointy ears.” 

“Darkspawn blood for the vallaslin, then,” she decided. “If it’s a snow-commander, it better look exactly like me, so it should.” 

“Then we shan’t make it too tall,” he said. 

“Demoted. Oghren’s Warden-Constable now.” 

Nathaniel quirked an eyebrow. “Surely there’s a better replacement for me than the dwarf.” 

“Surely not. You will respect both my decisions and my height.” 

“If you say so, Commander.” He looked ahead, his face entirely even. Then, he said, “Though if I didn’t, you couldn’t reach me to retaliate.” 

She laughed. “You’re a rotten boy.” 

Castle Redcliffe loomed before them. Its towers gleamed under snow and sunlight, casting the behemoth building in an outline of white. The castle was sturdy, solid. It had been the first castle Ethelan had ever seen four years ago, and it set the standard for what a castle should be in her mind. Massive, blocky, all gray stone and blazing hearths and carved wood. Truly, a textbook specimen of Fereldan architecture. And yet, to so many people, a home. 

The Wardens passed over the drawbridge and through the courtyard. The trees were bare, the ground churned mud. Hoofprints and bootprints and pawprints crisscrossed the courtyard; even in winter, life went on. Guards all in shining armor marked positions by the gate and up the stairs. They shivered as they stood. As she passed, Ethelan unwrapped her scarf and handed it to a beardless guard. He accepted it gratefully, until he got a good look at her face. Then, his eyes bulged, and he nearly tripped over himself trying to return the gift. 

“P-p-please,” he stammered, both from the cold and his nerves, “I c-can't accept th-this.” 

“It is a gift,” Ethelan smiled. “Keep it. You need it more than I do so.” 

The boy straightened up, looking both green and awestruck, “Y-y-yes, ser. Th-thank you, ser.” As Ethelan and Nathaniel opened the heavy doors to the castle, the boy whispered to his partner, “Th-th-that w-was the b-bleeding _Hero of F-Ferelden!”_

Nathaniel rolled his eyes at Ethelan. “Your reputation precedes you.” 

“Haven’t you heard?” she said. “I can kill eight men with a single glance.” 

“You should use that on the darkspawn more often, then.” 

They had not taken three steps into the entry hall before a servant saw them. Ethelan beamed bright, flagging the girl down. “Excuse me. We’re here to see Arl Teagan.” 

The servant, an elven girl no older than Ethelan, jumped. “Oh! I’m afraid the arl isn’t here right now.” 

Ethelan glanced at Nathaniel, then back at the servant. “Where is he?” 

The servant’s brows arched apologetically. “I don’t rightly know, my lady. I think he may be hunting.” 

“Hunting,” Ethelan repeated. 

The servant nodded. The air inside the castle was warmer than outside, but she still wore heavy wool. She shivered even as she spoke. “He’s been going out most days before dawn. He’s not hunting for himself, see. He’s doing it for the fishermen what lost their trade when the lake froze over.” 

Ethelan smiled. That would be just like Teagan. Handsome, helpful fellow. She exchanged another look with Nathaniel, gauging his patience. 

“How long until he returns, do you reckon?” Ethelan asked. 

“I couldn’t rightly say,” the servant said. “My apologies, my lady. I-I wish I could be of more use.” 

“Don’t you worry about that,” Ethelan said. “Thank you for your time. We’ll wait a bit for him.” 

The servant curtsied. “Yes, my lady. Very good my lady.” 

She turned to scurry off, but Ethelan’s voice stopped her. 

“I’m Mahariel, by the way. What’s your name?” 

The servant turned back. She twisted her skirt in her hands. Her face was a mixture of confusion and anxiety. “I-I’m called Evina, my lady.” 

Ethelan smiled. She tried to be nice to other elves. Little things like that were important. “You’ve got a beautiful name. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

She wondered if Evina even saw her as another elf, or if the Hero of Ferelden was too large a figure to merit a race. 

Evina glanced at the door, itching to escape. “Y-you as well, my lady. If there was nothing else you needed…” 

“Sorry to distract you,” Ethelan said. “Go on.” 

Evina absconded deeper into the castle, leaving Ethelan and Nathaniel to find their way to the main hall. It was much as it always was – long, warm, the blazing hearth filling the room with flickering light. A green carpet, trimmed with brown, lined the stone floor. The wooden beams along the ceiling were simple, carved only where they met the wall in interlocking swirls. Ethelan strolled to the hearth. She removed her leather gloves, stretching her frozen fingers over the fire. 

Teagan had written to her more than a week ago. She liked his letters; he sometimes drew horses in the margins. This time, however, his letter had been more than friendly correspondence. She knew something had gone down in Edgehall from her latest visit to Denerim. Teagan’s letter shed a grim light on the situation. He had sent his soldiers to fight, and it had not gone well. He was worried. Granted, he was usually worried these days, but this was different. This time, he’d asked her for help. 

The way she saw it, she had nothing to lose from training his knights. It was certainly not a difficult task. She was the Commander of the Grey. Training soldiers was her duty. Redcliffe, on the other hand, had everything to gain. This was the third military excursion they had participated in in as many years. The soldiers of Vigil’s Keep were strong, their strategies tactical. Redcliffe needed that. 

It was said that if Redcliffe fell, so would all of Ferelden. Ethelan didn’t quite understand why that was, but she knew Alistair relied on Teagan to bolster his armies in these little rebellions. Redcliffe’s knights were important. Their skill was even more so. 

So, she had agreed to help, naturally. Teagan was her friend. If he thought the situation was dire enough to merit petitioning the Commander of the Grey, she trusted it. After all, she had known him for four years, and the only time she’d seen him ask for help in all that time involved demonic possession and the walking dead. Clearly, his problems ran deeper than just a pyrrhic victory over Edgehall. 

For example, apparently food was scarce enough that he felt the need to hunt for the villagers. He’d conveniently left that detail from his letter. 

Nathaniel joined her by the hearth. These days, he went practically everywhere with her. It was hard to believe he’d once wanted to kill her. Allegiance was funny like that. It could shift faster than the blink of an eye. 

Anyway, he was clever. She liked that in a right-hand. As they warmed themselves by the fire, she waited for him to voice his thoughts. 

“Commander,” he said, right on cue. “You said we’ve come to train Redcliffe’s knights.” 

“That is correct.” 

“That may be difficult if the men are hungry.” 

“We’ve trained hungry soldiers before so.” 

“You’re not going to let them go hungry,” Nathaniel stated. It wasn’t a question. He knew her better than that. 

She smiled, knowing she’d been caught. “Yeah. I know there’s some more going on in Redcliffe than Teagan wanted to admit. Figured I’d help any way I can like.” 

Nathaniel smiled too. He had a soft smile. It came more often these days. “It’s good that you intend to help these people. What do you have in mind?” 

Ethelan stretched her neck, rolling it from side to side. “Well, I’m not sure all what’s going on. I figured I’d snoop around, see what Teagan’s not telling me, then go from there.” 

“Right,” Nathaniel said. “Because it is too hard to simply wait and ask him.” 

Ethelan grinned and waggled her eyebrows. She stepped down from the dais, leaving the hearth behind as she headed toward a closed door off the main hall. “Not hard, no. But it’s quicker this way. Come on, I’m breaking into his study.” 

Nathaniel rolled his eyes, but he followed, nonetheless. He caught up to her quickly, closing the distance in a few strides. “Why do you always drag me into petty crime?” 

She shrugged. “I play to your strengths.” 

They crossed a threshold into a small hall, at the end of which sat another closed door. Suits of armor lined the walls. Evina was rubbing one with a rag. Upon seeing the Hero of Ferelden and her tall, intimidating companion, she curtsied and hurried into a side room. 

The study door was locked. Without so much as pausing to shrug, Ethelan knelt before it and fished out a set of lockpicks. A few seconds of twisting and listening, and then the tumbler clicked, and she pushed the door open with a little grin. She turned her grin on Nathaniel, looking awfully pleased with herself. 

“Well,” she said, “let’s do some good.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ethelan snoops. Teagan gets wine drunk. Some swords go missing.

Ethelan used to snoop around this study when it belonged to Eamon. She’d found some interesting things in there. Now that it was Teagan’s, she maintained the time-honored tradition of opening every cabinet and rifling through every paper, lest she pass over something valuable that he wouldn’t miss.

  
The room was exactly how she remembered it. Bookshelves behind a large desk, swords and shields and dead Guerrins in oils on the wall. The main difference was the desk; it was awash with papers. Clearly this arl was less meticulous than his predecessor.

  
As Nathaniel skimmed the bookshelves, Ethelan plopped herself down in the desk chair. Most of the papers were records; she saw no signs of letters of any sort. Teagan must’ve done his epistles elsewhere. She leafed through the documents, squinting to make sense of some of the shorthand.

  
A manifest from Honnleath. The village still hadn’t recovered to the point where it could send much in the way of taxes. Furthermore, Teagan wasn’t pressing it. Similar reports from elsewhere in the arling littered the desk. Ethelan was no businesswoman, but she was pretty sure that put Redcliffe in the red.

  
Ha. Redcliffe. In the red.

  
It was the Blight. She felt it. The south had taken the brunt of the darkspawn horde. Tracks and tracks of once-fertile land now lay withered and black, poisoned beyond repair by the darkspawn taint. Many settlements now barely subsisted on their barren fields. People starved all across the south of Ferelden.

  
In many ways, Amaranthine was lucky. It was one of the few arlings well-stocked this winter.

  
Ethelan searched among the documents for reports on Redcliffe Village’s food stock. Though it seemed most older documents had been filed away – if one could call that mess filed – she did manage to uncover a note from the castle granary. It confirmed her suspicions; the harvest had failed this year. What’s more, Teagan had already turned over the bulk of Castle Redcliffe’s stores to the arling.

  
So, Redcliffe was starving. Why had Teagan neglected to mention that? It was no small thing, a famine. She thought back to the last time they had spoken. Had it come up?

* * *

She’d gotten it in her head to visit Alistair in Denerim. Maybe it was a foolish thought; even after three years, things were still… awkward between them. Stiff. Neither of them wanted to acknowledge what had happened. But, she wanted to see him. It’d been too long.

  
He wasn’t there, though. Everyone else was – Eamon, Isolde, Wynne, among others. The palace often hosted nobles, whether the king was present or not. Slowly but surely, Ethelan was making friends among the Bannorn. She’d shown up disappointed to Alistair’s court enough times to recognize the faces.

  
She had hoped Alistair might make an appearance after dinner, when all his sycophants milled about a great hall sipping wine and talking fluff. She clutched a goblet and wandered from person to person. Slowly, she pieced together the truth.

  
Alistair wasn’t even in Denerim. He was in Gwaren, of all places. Nice and far from Denerim and that ugliness in the Frostbacks.

  
It seemed Alistair was never where she needed him these days. She wondered if Ferelden shared the sentiment.

  
The hall was alight with other chatter, though. Something about the arl of Edgehall. Ethelan nipped bits and pieces of the affair between a sleepy lute-song and the laughter of tipsy nobles.

  
She was making the rounds when she locked eyes with Teagan. He stood across the room, a polite but vacant expression on his face as Bann Valeria of Aberby talked his ear off. It’d been some time since Ethelan had last seen him. He was sporting a full beard now. He looked thinner.

  
She’d always liked Teagan. At the very least, he was sympathetic to the banalities of running an arling. And, being Alistair’s uncle (sort of), he was often quick with a joke, though he was a terrible flirt.

  
He’d taken his brother’s place not long before Ethelan took Amaranthine. From what she’d heard, he was far more suited to ruling an arling than she.

  
As she drew nearer, the tail end of his conversation came to ear.

  
“…although I don’t see why it matters,” he was saying.

  
“Bryland is not doing right by those people,” Bann Valeria replied. “They _need_ a bann. If Redcliffe intervened…”

  
Teagan took a large sip of his drink. His eyes flashed to Ethelan over the rim of the goblet. When he lowered it, he huffed an annoyed sigh.

  
“Redcliffe has enough troubles of its own,” he replied. “Taking on another bannorn – one that is tainted worse than our own land - in the middle of reconstruction – without a word to its arl - would be foolish.”

  
“I don’t know,” Ethelan drawled, sidling to his rescue. “I find stretching myself too thin usually works out for the best.”

  
Valeria turned a cool gaze on Ethelan. She was a tall woman, older than Teagan, her graying hair braided off her forehead. She sipped her goblet before responding, extending the moment.

  
“Ah, the Hero of Ferelden,” she finally said. There was no warmth in her voice. Fereldan bluntness. “Tell me, how does Amaranthine fare this time of year?”

  
“She’s faring,” Ethelan said. “No one’s tried to kill me yet, so we’re all getting along like.”

  
Valeria sniffed. “There is more to governance than simply not dying.”

  
“That’s why I have a seneschal,” Ethelan said. She looked between Teagan and Valeria. “What’s going on here?”

  
Teagan cut Valeria off from answering. “A foolish argument. One that is concluded, I presume?”

  
Valeria scowled. “Wouldn’t you just like that? No. I urge you, my lord, to claim Lothering.”

  
Teagan cocked an eyebrow. “If you want it so badly, you take it.”

  
Clearly, this was not the solution she was after. She frowned deeply, a nasty crease forming on her cheeks. “My lord, that’s not what I-"

  
“Congratulations on your new bannorn,” Ethelan said.

  
Valeria scowled at Ethelan. Ethelan sipped her wine, making use of her massive eyes. She’d been told they made her look innocent. Endearing. She batted her lashes at Valeria. A demure show of defiance.

  
Valeria hissed, “I can see this is getting nowhere. Do consider it, Teagan. It is for the good of Redcliffe.”

  
She stalked away with her goblet, her dress swishing out behind her. His skirmish concluded, Teagan drained the rest of his cup.

  
“That was weird,” Ethelan said. It wasn’t weird at all, really. Nobles argued over the tritest things.

  
Teagan pinched the bridge of his nose. “The next person who tells me what is or isn’t good for Redcliffe will be fed to the dogs.”

  
“A noble Fereldan end,” Ethelan nodded. “What’s the draw of Lothering? Last time I passed through, it was still destroyed.”

  
“They’re rebuilding,” Teagan said. “But they still don’t have a bann. Bann Valeria urges me to claim it for the arling of Redcliffe. Honestly, I’m not convinced she doesn’t just resent Leonas for being half-Orlesian.” He scoffed. “An attitude I grow tired of.”

  
Ethelan grimaced. Fereldans and their grudges. Half the men and women in this hall still prickled at the Orlesian occupation. It was not unlike the Dalish and their distrust of _shemlen_. 

  
Ethelan tried not to participate in ancient blood feuds. Too much history to account for, and she did so loathe _remembering_ things. 

  
“I’m sure Bryland can take care of Lothering,” she said. While she had Teagan talking politics, she nudged him for the news of the hour. “Hey, what’s this I hear about Arl Gell throwing a fit?"

  
An annoyed, mirthless smile lit Teagan’s face. “Oh, that. Edgehall’s rebelling. Again.”

  
Ethelan silently poured the rest of her goblet into Teagan’s. He drank long and gratefully. There was a flush on his face. She got the impression he’d about had his fill of court life for the evening.

  
Ethelan fiddled with the straps on her armor. It was a ceremonial suit, far too heavy to be practical in a fight. Still, it kept her out of a dress.

  
“I thought Ferelden would go back to normal after the Blight,” she said. “Why do you suppose things are still so… messy?”

  
Teagan leaned against a nearby pillar, crossing his arms. “Perhaps you underestimate how chaotic Ferelden is in _normalcy_.” He sighed. “Gell, like many others, is dissatisfied with the current king. Alistair asked me to send men to Edgehall, but, _unfortunately_ , he is not here to discuss terms.” 

  
Ethelan mimicked his stance, tilting her head slightly to meet his eyes. There was a certain inebriated bite to the way he said the king’s name. She knew he loved his nephew. But she sympathized with his frustration at Alistair’s absence. It must have been worse for Teagan – he actually needed Alistair here.

  
It wasn’t that Alistair was a bad king. It was that Alistair did not particularly act like a king. He traipsed all over Ferelden willy-nilly, as if it was still the Blight and he still had reason to wander about. Eamon did all the governing, even with his days as regent behind him. It was no wonder more and more landholders were deciding they’d rather have Anora again.

  
For what it was worth, Ethelan did not judge Alistair. He’d never wanted to be king. She probably never should have decided it for him.

  
She pursed her lips. Teagan looked so very tired, which meant he looked mean. Truly, with that temper, there was no question he belonged in the Bannorn.

  
She couldn’t resist. “What do _you_ think of Alistair as king?”

  
He went to sip from his goblet, only to find it empty. He sighed. “…I wish he’d do his job more often, so that _I_ wouldn’t have to.”

  
Ethelan patted him on the arm. His sword arm, definitely; she felt hard muscle even through his doublet. “This is what you get for taking over Redcliffe.”

  
“Lucky me,” he said bitterly. He shook his head, suddenly taking his weight off the column. “Forgive me. You should not have to listen to me feel sorry for myself.”

  
Ethelan shrugged. “Hey, that’s what I’m here for. Listening to my friends feel sorry for themselves.”

  
But she felt it too. The weariness, the frustration. She didn’t belong in court any more than Alistair. She needed air. By the looks of it, Teagan did too.

  
“Wanna escape?” she asked.

  
“Escape, my lady?” he blinked.

  
“Yeah, get out of the palace like. Do you have armor?” She grinned, clenching her fists like an excited child. “We could wander the streets until we’re mugged!”

  
He squinted at her, a bemused smile on his face. “As… appealing as that sounds,” he chuckled, “I have another idea.” 

  
He took her hand, leaning in conspiratorially. In the torchlight, his blue eyes flickered, dark and mischievous.

  
“Have you ever been on the palace roof?”

* * *

That had been a good night. They’d gotten pissed and thrown rocks at the nearest tower until someone opened a window to yell at them. And they had talked. They had talked about many things, some of which Ethelan had not spoken of in a long time.

  
Where she’d come from. Why she’d left. Ancient history like that.

  
It was the longest time she had ever spent alone with Teagan. She found herself rather liking the fellow. Even if he knew things about her she didn’t normally tell.

  
Frankly, that only made her want to help Redcliffe more. Teagan really tried to do right by the village; as long as she’d known him, he’d dedicated all his time to serving the villagers. She couldn’t sit idly by and let him foot it all on his own. He was her friend, and he needed help.

  
Having found what she came for, at least for the time being, Ethelan pushed away from his desk. She could do nothing to solve Redcliffe’s hunger pangs at the moment, but she _had_ come here to whip their knights into shape.

  
For the sake of politeness, she intended to speak to Teagan before diving into training. But social niceties did nothing to bar her from simply appraising his knights.

  
She and Nathaniel made their way to the barracks. Ethelan knew her way around the castle; she’d unintentionally explored most of it when she’d snuck in through the mill tunnels four years ago. It was that remarkable sense for directions that kept her sane in the Deep Roads.

  
They heard the knights before they saw them. Clashing metal, grunts and thumps, the bark of orders – familiar sounds to leaders of a grey army. The training courtyard lay beyond a blocky arcade, a muddy pit trampled by the castle’s knights.

  
There were no more than thirty of them, all armored in full plate, all human, all men. Half were off on the far end of the courtyard. They skirmished with each other, seemingly in groups of three. Those closest to the Wardens tested their mettle against sackcloth training dummies. A handful of squires hovered beyond the arcades, watching their lords.

  
A man’s fighting style said a lot about him. For example, Teagan’s knights were a straightforward lot. They fought the way proper knights should - with longswords and shields, face-to-face, strength against strength.

  
They did it well, to their credit. But it certainly wasn’t how Ethelan fought.

  
Their captain prowled the lines growling criticism. His hands were folded behind his back, and he walked with a noticeable limp. Lines of age marked his face, which was bare, as he alone wore no helm.

  
Ethelan eyed the knights attacking the training dummies. They had no want for power, that was flat. Those training dummies looked mighty worn. They lacked finesse, sure, but she’d trade her left arm for Wardens with that kind of strength. Every army needed a vanguard.

  
Unbothered by their training – they telegraphed every strike; she had nothing to fear - she strolled through the courtyard. When a knight’s errant swing nearly took her head off, she casually ducked. She smiled kindly at his concerned, “My lady?”, never breaking stride.

  
The captain appraised her as she approached. There was a weathered coolness in his gaze, as if nothing could shake him. They’d met before, he and Ethelan. She thought his name might be Hylan.

  
“Good of you to come, Warden-Commander,” he greeted.

  
“I’m here to help any way I can,” she said. “I hear there’s been trouble like.”

  
Ser Hylan scoffed. “There’s always trouble in Redcliffe these days. I must admit, we did not expect you for another day at least.”

  
Ethelan held her palms up to cup the fleeting winter sunlight. “We got lucky, so we did. The roads cleared.”

  
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen the arl yet,” Ser Hylan said.

  
Ethelan shook her head. “I’m just here to say hi.”

  
Ser Hylan bared his teeth. It was probably meant as a smile. “Hi. Unfortunately, we- excuse me for a moment. Jabeth! It’s a sword, not your mother’s sewing needle. _Swing it_.” He turned back to Ethelan, clearing his throat. “As I was saying, unfortunately, we could use more than just an hello right now. You haven’t seen the arl, but I assume you heard about Edgehall?”

  
Oh yes. By now, she’d heard all about Edgehall. Even if Teagan hadn’t spared no details in his letters, the failed rebellion was now the talk of Ferelden.

  
“Heard you put Arl Gell back in his place, but his mercenaries ate you alive.”

  
Ser Hylan snorted. “In so many words. We lost good men that day. Too many men. And those damn Orlesians nearly took my foot off.”

  
“Damn Orlesians,” Ethelan agreed blandly. They were hardly Orlesian anymore. They’d been working for Edgehall since before the Blight. But that was neither here nor there.

  
Ser Hylan paused to bark at another knight. “The point is, Warden-Commander, we need your help desperately. I’ve seen the soldiers fight out of Vigil’s Keep. It would be an honor to learn from you.”

  
Ethelan tried to exchange a look with Nathaniel, but he wasn’t looking. His eyes were drawn to the knights. He was studying them, sizing them up. He knew what to look for; before he was a Warden, he had squired for a knight in the Free Marches. When he wanted to, he could fight like any of the arl’s men.

  
But Ethelan would wager five sovereigns he could outshoot any of these plate-armored _shemlen_. A man’s fighting style said a lot about him, and Nathaniel could also scrap like a proper rogue. That sort of flexibility was important in the Grey Wardens. It was what the arl’s men lacked.

  
Still, Ethelan knew less about a knight’s chivalrous fighting than she’d like. She tapped Nathaniel’s arm to draw his attention. “Notice anything, Nate?”

  
He did a double-take, attention still half-piqued by the dummies. “Their swords are too heavy for the maneuvers they’re practicing,” he explained. “They lose speed.”

  
Ser Hylan grumbled. He shifted his weight, tugging at his coif. “I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance, ser. I am Ser Hylan. Are you a Grey Warden as well?"

  
This caught Nathaniel’s full attention. He dipped his head at the knight. “I am. I am Nathaniel Howe.”

  
“ _Warden-Constable_ Nathaniel Howe,” Ethelan added. 

  
Ser Hylan’s face went stony. Still, he did the polite thing and bowed. “I knew your father.”

  
“Many did,” Nathaniel said. His voice took on the weary tone he reserved for discussing his father’s crimes. “I acknowledge my father did many unspeakable things. His actions are not my own. I am trying to atone for them however I can.”

  
“Nathaniel is a good man,” Ethelan interjected. She edged ever so slightly in front of him, protecting him from Ser Hylan’s prejudice. “If you have a problem with him, you have a problem with the Grey Wardens.”

  
Ser Hylan’s mouth hardened into a line. He nodded. “I understand. You are your own man, Warden-Constable Howe. You will find no enemy in me.”

  
Nathaniel’s eyes brightened. Relief. “That is… good to hear.”

  
“So,” Ethelan said. “Heavy swords?”

  
Ser Hylan sighed. “Ah, yes. The men are training with guards’ swords right now. The quartermaster sent our weapons to the blacksmith for repairs. My squire was to collect them today, but the boy hasn’t returned yet. I’m sure he’s lollygagging in the village.”

  
“The village?” Ethelan repeated. “Does Castle Redcliffe not have its own blacksmith?”

  
“Not when there’s a perfectly good one a mile down the road,” Ser Hylan said. “Welcome to Redcliffe, Warden-Commander. You’ll find things a lot more spread out here.”

  
Ethelan glanced at the sun. It was just past noon. She had more than enough daylight left to make a trip down to the village and back.

  
“I could find your squire for you,” she said.

  
“Why did I know you were going to say that?” Nathaniel muttered.

  
Ser Hylan shrugged. His armor clinked with the motion. Absolutely useless in an ambush. No way of flanking Edgehall’s men.

  
“It would get these men better weapons sooner,” he considered. Then, he flipped his hand. “You don’t have to go yourself, though. I’ll just send a servant.”

  
Ethelan scrunched her nose. “It’s a trifle. Trifle. How many miles’d we walk today, Nate?”

  
“Five.”

  
“I’ve got two more in me ‘til I’m satisfied. Dalish thing.”

  
“I see,” Ser Hylan said. He raised his eyebrows in defeat. “Well, if you wish, it is no trouble. The boy’s name is Mikha. He has red hair and stands about yea-high.” He held a hand to his chest.

  
Ethelan nodded. “Mikha, red hair, my height. Got it. Coming, Nate?”

  
Nathaniel tucked a stray hair away from his face. His eyes flickered to the line of dummies again. “If it’s all the same to you,” he said, “I could be of more use if I stay here.”

  
Ethelan shrugged. “ _Ma nuvenin._ I’ll be back in a wink, yeah?”

  
“Thank you, Warden-Commander,” said Ser Hylan. “Your help is most appreciated.”

  
Ethelan just smiled. “Glad to be of assistance.”

  
She took her leave, ducking back through the courtyard and into the arcade. She enjoyed these sorts of fetch quests, really. It was the little things that took a burden off someone’s shoulders. And anyway, she liked stretching her legs. It was a silly errand, sure, but it wasn’t without purpose.

  
The way to the village was packed with snow. Castle Redcliffe sat atop a – believe it – red cliff. Its path to the village ran over bridge and down a winding slope, the road wide from centuries of use.

  
Did Redcliffe’s people appreciate the age of their home? Hundreds of years had passed, and still Redcliffe stood. The thought humbled Ethelan. Save the paths of their migrations, nothing the Dalish had had ever lasted so long.

  
_“Do you miss them terribly? Your clan?”_

  
Teagan’s words returned to her unbidden. There, up on the roof of the palace, they had not flinched from the looming shadow of history. They had looked it square in the eye. Embraced it.

  
Ethelan did not care for that, as a rule. Too much pain in the past – and there was that mill again, the one she’d kissed Alistair under. As she walked by, she paused, staring at the rubble that was once backdrop to something beautiful.

  
An ancient village, an ancient mill. Yet it too fell when the Blight claimed it.

  
 _“No,”_ she had said to Teagan that night. _“It’s… easier to forget them.”_

  
And it was. That was the way she’d survived since then. Forget when she could. Keep moving forward. Run as many errands as possible.

  
Find the squire. Retrieve the swords. Mindless tasks to distract from the fact that she had not walked this path accompanied since before Alistair took the throne.

  
It really shouldn’t have been so hard anymore. Three years was a long time – more than enough time to forget.

  
She pushed on, leaving the ruined mill to its loneliness. Redcliffe Village sat just down the embankment. Within it, a squire, some swords, and another task to lose herself in. A little distraction from the past.

  
A way to make things better. For the knights. For herself. For everyone, really. It was better to be distracted.

  
She could do a lot of good distracted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speaking of Alistair, why don't we find out what he's been doing since the Blight?


End file.
